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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24640057">better things to do</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens'>smithens</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Downton Abbey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1920s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing, Exes, M/M, POV Multiple, Queer Culture, Threesome, Unrated for Eventual Sexual Content</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:55:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24640057</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas follows a man he just met out of a bar; Chris can lead in more ways than one; Richard is late, but not too late.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis/Chris Webster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>the title of this is actually the entire song of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJmMoTB5C_Y">summer love by carly rae jepsen</a>, an absolute bop nu disco piece, yet another choice hit from the queen of throwing bricks and saving my life</p><p>the title as written, however, is from something with which we are all i am sure very familiar</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He's been sitting in the car with his head resting on the window feeling sorry for himself for any number of minutes (hasn't checked his watch, though as that's likely what got him into this pickle he probably ought) before he notices.</p><p>Middle of the night on a Thursday seems an odd time for police to be out patrolling, especially on a street so quiet as this one. </p><p>The car passes him by.</p><p>Richard takes out his watch. His legs are restless. The more he turns it all over in his head the more he feels out of sorts; that landlord certainly hadn't seemed all too keen on whatever it was had happened before he arrived. <em>Somebody's best to look into it,</em> he'd said…  </p><p>A few minutes later the vehicle comes along again—or maybe a different one. Cops are cops and it's all the same to him, far as the risks go, but this one is rolling slowly enough to get his heart pounding. Slowly enough that he reckons whoever's behind the wheel knows exactly what he's looking for.</p><p>Putting two and two together gets him confirmation enough as to how <em>Mr Thomas Barrow</em> chose to spend his evening in Richard's absence.</p><p><em>Stay out of it,</em> part of him says. That frightened, witless part of him he's never managed to stifle all the way. Keeping that scared little boy in the past where he belongs gets tougher and tougher the more and more he has to lose, but he knows the score and wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't act, so he takes a deep breath, puts the car back in drive, and does the smart thing. Years in London and plenty's changed, but he knows York like the back of his hand, and he'll be able to find it again and get out as quick as need be.</p><p>Before he knows it he's leaning up against the storeroom door with a lit cigarette in one hand—<em>the wife hates it indoors, Officer</em>—and the other behind his back in a fist.</p><p>It's sturdy enough he can't hear much even with his ear pressed to the thing, but it may not be the sort of place where there's much to hear. He's in fucking York; so much as he loves it he doesn't exactly remember it as a place of his-kind-of-culture. For all he knows Mr Barrow is –</p><p>He's got to focus or he's not helping anybody.</p><p>He knocks. If it's at all like London there's a code, but this isn't London and he doesn't know it if there is.</p><p>Silence. No movement, no weight from the other side of the door. The street's empty, and he's got time, but time runs out, doesn't it—he's just learned that lesson for the tenth time over. </p><p>Richard counts to five, slow, then knocks again. There's a possibility he's about to cry wolf, here, but he'd rather be safe than sorry.</p><p>It takes three more tries before the door opens (and he's blessed with the luck to have stood up straight just before it does.) Patterns do the trick, and ill-intentioned folk wouldn't bother knocking, he suspects.</p><p>The bloke—a stranger to him, for good or ill, and he tries not to hide his surprise over it—who opens the door <em>just</em> a bit and sticks his head out looks like he trusts him about as much as the viper trusted the farmer. It strikes Richard as an unfortunate oversight, leaving a man who can't keep his feelings off of his face minding the entrance.</p><p>From behind him comes the thrum of chatter and the sound of <em>jazz music,</em> upbeat and swinging, the sort he'd expect to hear at any place from the Palais to the Jubilee Hall but not necessarily in his own corner. Not necessarily for working people, as it happens, either, the other aspect notwithstanding. Dancing. There must be dancing. When was the last time he danced with anybody?</p><p>
  <em>Keep your eyes open, Ellis, lawks a mercy.</em>
</p><p>The man stares at him, head cocked to one side.</p><p>"Good evening," Richard says, taking his hat off for good measure. </p><p>A curt nod. "What brings you round here tonight, then?"</p><p>"Noticed you've got lilly growing in the garden." The blank, suspicious look he gets in return reminds him that he is in Yorkshire and this man's likely never set foot in the West End, so he clarifies, "peelers just round the corner." </p><p>His eyes widen for about an instant before narrowing. If naught else, he knows he could be doing a better job fronting than he is.</p><p>"Place like this should have more than one exit, shouldn't it," he continues, looking him straight in the eyes. He's only just resisting the urge to stand up on his tiptoes and get a peek inside. "Best make use of all of them, it won't take long for a drive round the block – "</p><p>"Seem to know a bit about the area, don't you, sir?"</p><p>The man is either too stubborn for his own good or too sharp, but to Richard's knowledge this isn't the normal way of setting a snare, so he's prone to surmise it's the former.</p><p>Somebody's come up behind him, now, too, but he's only visible as a silhouette… and through it all there's the music.</p><p>Behind them the street is still deserted. He's not the only one keeping an eye to the side.</p><p>"If I were you," he says, very slowly, very carefully, and very Yorkshire. <em>Very at home</em>, because that's where he is, isn't it? Best to be himself in a situation like this, best to lean into it. Especially when he'd thought it might go smoother. "I should – "</p><p>"And why should I listen to what you'd do?"</p><p>"Because it's in your best interests."</p><p>"Ours, or yours?"</p><p>Right.</p><p>New tack.</p><p>"What's your name?" Richard asks.</p><p>"Smith."</p><p>Nothing else it could be, is there.</p><p>"Well, Mr Smith, if you have any doubts, you might head back in there, find the most popular man in the room and tell him Dick Ellis would like to have a word with him, please."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>¯\_(ツ)_/¯ what's another wip among friends (a few chapters written already but who knows when they'll be up lol i'm literally moving across like five states rn)</p><p>also richard has to save the day still because we've gotta give him something. we've gotta. poor guy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You can't mean that," Chris says. Thomas looks back and forth between them, a bad feeling in his gut. "Dick's outside?"</p><p>The other man blanches. "You know him, then?"</p><p>"Yes, I bloody well know him, but what the hell's he doing here?"</p><p>"Said there was peelers about – "</p><p>"Oh, fucking hell, Metcalfe – "</p><p>Thomas gets about halfway through a "what's going on" before Chris claps him on the shoulder and tells him to get his clothes.</p><p>Next thing he knows he's sitting with his back up against the brick and his head between his knees, probably getting dirt all over his arse, breathing in through his mouth, heart still pounding. It's the most mortifying thing he's done in front of a man in ages and he's not exactly proud of it, but he can't make himself stand up, not when his legs feel like jelly and his head like bricks.</p><p>This whole thing was too good to be true.</p><p>Daft of him to think it could've gone any different—but, it could've been worse, actually, so he shouldn't think that way. That's tempting fate at this point. Exactly how many times he's narrowly escaped an arrest in his life he doesn't know, probably more than can be counted on one hand and that's just the ones he <em>knows</em> about, who can say if there were more, but he's thought for months now that those days were over for him. He doesn't exactly need the reminder they aren't.</p><p>But he's got one, like it or lump it. Nothing even bloody <em>happened,</em> just a commotion, just a few Black Marias seen from a distance, so it's pathetic, really, that he's behaving like <em>this</em> over it. He's a grown man, one who's spent the past twenty years of his life looking after himself, getting himself out of scrapes all on his own.  </p><p>He'd just thought maybe this time he wouldn't have to.</p><p>"Sorry," Chris says again, with a squeeze to his shoulder. He's crouched next to him, close and comforting. The man's a fucking hero, or a saint at least. First time he's ever been picked up at a bar for something that didn't involve shucking his trousers—not that he hadn't thought about it. Or expected it. Or, yes, wanted it; he had done. But even if Ellis (Richard) (well, doesn't matter now, does it?) stood him up he can't be the sort of man who'd leave a man stranded in a city he doesn't know all that well, can he? It wouldn't have happened. He should never have left the pub. "Never meant for this, I can promise you that."</p><p>But he did, because even at the ripe old age of thirty-six he still gets weak in the knees for a handsome man. Let alone an interested one.</p><p>Handsome, interested, cocky but <em>not</em> in an unattractive way, a <em>very</em> good dancer, a bloke who knows what he's up against and isn't afraid to stand his ground when it comes to it… Thomas was confident like that, once. </p><p>A lot's happened since then.</p><p>"Not <em>your</em> fault," Thomas says. His voice is hoarse the way it gets when he cries. He hasn't done that, and <em>good thing, too,</em> because collapsing into a heap on the bloody cobblestones is embarrassing enough on its own, but he's not jumping for joy over the fact that he's coming off like he has despite it.</p><p>"Not yours, neither." Another squeeze, and then he's sitting beside him, proper, their hips touching. "You remember that, Barrow."</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"Didn't do nothing wrong."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"Never hurts to be reminded, though, does it?"</p><p>He shakes his head against his knees, and Chris puts his arm around his shoulders and tugs him nearer. "Easy, love… you smoke?"</p><p>Well, if there's any reason to go back on his word to Baxter this is bound to be it, so he chokes out an "I do, yeah." Chris lights it for him, then holds it up to his lips; he takes it and drops his head back against the wall, eyes closed. "You don't have to stay."</p><p>He doesn't know why he says it, seeing as he would prefer not to be left alone in some back alley.</p><p>"I got you into this mess," Chris says softly, "and I'll be the one to get you out."</p><p>"I know, but…"</p><p>"Let's settle your nerves before we send you off on your own, eh?"</p><p>This man's much too good for him.</p><p>Thomas mumbles something just for the sake of it, tries to make himself calm down. Smoking helps. Why the fuck did he ever agree he'd give it up? Nothing else ever settles his nerves like this does; he'd only felt guilty, that was all… </p><p>"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour," Chris says suddenly, and after a pat to Thomas's shoulder he stands. Thomas finds he has no desire to find out who exactly the bloke is, himself, so he stays put, keeps smoking. "Kept watch, then?"</p><p>He probably should be bothered by a stranger—a stranger other than Webster, at least—seeing him like this, but if he has his way he won't be returning to York for a <em>very long time,</em> possibly ever. Hadn't even wanted to come anyway. He'd only said yes because he was thinking with his heart instead of his head.</p><p>Maybe something lower than his heart. Actually.</p><p>The point is he'll be embarrassed tonight and ideally never thereafter, about this at least, and anything to be had in York can be had some place else. Probably. Maybe not what he's just gotten up to but seeing as how he's ended up he doesn't intend to go trolling about for a dancing partner any time soon.</p><p>Nobody would protect him if anything happened, and he knows it. Upstairs they'd even be glad for the excuse to get rid of him, probably.</p><p>"And?"</p><p>That's Chris again.</p><p>"They went inside, spent a handful of minutes there and then walked out with nothing to show for it." A pause. A long one. That voice is almost familiar, the more he thinks about it... "Right, Christopher, you and I both know York's too small to keep a place like this under a hat for too long – "</p><p>"Blimey, and here I thought London might've loosened you up some – "</p><p>"Loosened me <em>up some</em>, he says – "</p><p>"Can't imagine they let you have much fun in the Royal Household, though, now I think of it – "</p><p>
  <em>Wait a second.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Right," Dick says, with a jerk of his head toward the end of the alley. "I'll get things settled over there, and you two get on – where might I find you?"</p>
<p>"Haven't changed my address," Chris says evenly. Dick tugs his gloves back on, chin lifted and shoulders set back. He says nothing, won't meet his eyes; he's fixed his focus on Thomas Barrow… and with good reason. Nothing he can blame him for, there, as far as the view is concerned—it's the bloody avoidance that gets to him. The double checking. Always has been. "Or don't you remember?" </p>
<p>He's never been easy to rile up, but when you know somebody for long enough you find ways to get under his skin, no matter what he likes to pretend.</p>
<p>Dick averts his eyes, just for a second, fingers hovering at the buttons of his coat.</p>
<p>All these years and he hasn't changed a whit.</p>
<p>"Just try not to draw attention to yourselves," he returns, walking backwards; before they know it he's rounded the corner.</p>
<p>"Do as he says, not as he does."</p>
<p>At the words Thomas snorts; Chris offers him a smile. It's returned, but in the direction of the ground rather than his face. You'd think a man with that sort of mouth on him wouldn't be so shy. Endearing as it is, Chris would like to see him without the nerves—he'd gotten a glimpse, if a brief one. Thomas has a hell of a laugh, and hearing it brought no small amount of pride for him. Whether it was the drinking or the dancing that did it…</p>
<p>Well, it was neither. Or neither alone, at least.</p>
<p>
  <em>Never seen anything like it.</em>
</p>
<p>Whenever he'd last had some fun it was much too long ago, and Chris had figured he'd do his best to make up for all that time he must've spent all on his own… only apparently it's not a job for just him, is it? Typical. But it doesn't matter who had the idea first, now, does it. It matters <em>gets there</em> first, and that point goes to him.</p>
<p>You'd think if Dick liked the bloke so much (and he'd seen the look in his eyes, remembered what it felt like to be on the receiving end) he'd've bothered to show up for once. To move in a straight line, follow his own feet, something like that—he would put it any number of ways, himself. He never knew how to cut to the chase. Anybody who knew him (and anybody's mother) would agree with that and no mistake. No use blaming him for something he can't help, though, Chris will admit. He's easily distracted, is all, and he can't hate him for it; they all have their problems. </p>
<p>Thomas opens his mouth, a questioning look on his face; Chris lays his hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. Not yet. </p>
<p>They remain still.</p>
<p>They wait.</p>
<p>The signal isn't long in coming: "...begging your pardon, Officer, could I trouble you for directions? Afraid I've gotten turned around – I'm not from the area –"</p>
<p>"Well, that much is clear… where's it you're headed this time of night, then?"</p>
<p>"It's, er… well – hang on, my wife wrote down…" </p>
<p>Bloody show-off.</p>
<p>"Don't look back," says Chris out of the corner of his mouth, giving Thomas a gentle push to the back just as he's about to turn his head, and though he huffs in disbelief he does as he's told. Good man. </p>
<p>They slip away.</p>
<p>Just like before they spend the better part of the walk in silence, Thomas following. Jesus he's trusting. Lucky it was him and not some other bloke (he can name a few off the top of his head) who picked him up. </p>
<p>Add to that, it was his first time dancing, but <em>probably</em> not his first time going somewhere more private.</p>
<p>A fact somebody had seemed unwilling to acknowledge.</p>
<p>
  <em>If you keep a bloke waiting you can't well blame him for</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But I can blame you.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>For what? Seeing something I liked?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>One might think after what happened you'd know better than to </em>
</p>
<p><em>I am a grown man,</em> Thomas had interrupted.</p>
<p>Chris had been unable to tell if he was amused or offended.</p>
<p><em>Well, Mr Barrow, I'm lucky you found yourself in good hands, aren't I,</em> Dick had said, holding his hat to his chest like he hadn't any cares in the world while Thomas stood like a lamb sold for slaughter, as if Richard Ellis would ever hurt a damn fly, <em>wouldn't've forgiven myself, elsewise.</em></p>
<p>At least he still remembers what's what and who's who.</p>
<p>"So," Thomas says.</p>
<p>"So?"</p>
<p>"We're going to yours?"</p>
<p>"We're going to mine."</p>
<p>"And he'll…"</p>
<p>"He'll show up." They turn a corner. "Sooner rather than later, if he knows what's good for him."</p>
<p>"How does he..."</p>
<p>Thomas doesn't finish whatever question he's trying to ask, but it's not hard to guess.</p>
<p>"Years of practise," Chris tells him. "Quite the charmer, isn't he."</p>
<p>"Well, I…"</p>
<p>He knocks their elbows together. Thomas laughs, more of a breath than anything. Now that he's not frightened within an inch of his life (and could anybody blame him?) the excitement's slowly, slowly getting back into him. There's the silver lining in all this, is showing a man something he's never before seen up close. "You'd not be the first."</p>
<p>Never any harm in looking on the bright side. Disappointment's better than going about life miserable and dead on your feet.</p>
<p>"And I won't be the last?"</p>
<p>Now, there's an interesting question. </p>
<p>"Depends on what you had in mind."</p>
<p>"What did <em>you</em> have in mind, if I may?"</p>
<p>"You looked like you could've done with a good time," Chris says.</p>
<p>Silence. When he looks over again Thomas is smirking.<em> There's what I liked about you,</em> Chris thinks.</p>
<p>"What sort of good time were you thinking, exactly?"</p>
<p>It's no surprise, then, when they end up with their tongues in each other's mouths the moment the door is shut and locked. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>find me on tumblr as <a href="https://combeferre.tumblr.com">@combeferre</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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